I felt dreadful today. My battery needs recharging. I seem to have no energy at all. I have been like this for some time now. My hand still hurts like someone stamped on it. I am perpetually exhausted but can't sleep. I missed my son playing football for the second time this season because I felt too rotten to drive him. It doesn't feel right simply hearing that they lost. I should have to see it for myself.
I spent some of the morning thinking about my radio appearance tomorrow. I am going to the BBC studio here in Cambridge to take part in a discussion on BBC Radio Scotland's Book Cafe. We are talking about scary books for children as well as Twitter and its relevance (or not) for writing.
Funnily enough I have been helping my son with his homework. Part of the brief is to imagine that you are the author of a book and be quizzed about how and why you wrote it. He has chosen Tom's Midnight Garden as his book. I actually learned a few things about Philippa Pearce that I didn't know as I tested him on his knowledge.
It fascinates me how much analysis expected of 12 year-olds these days. It does not seem to be enough to read or even understand a book anymore; the children have to tease out themes and even find fault. They are expected to be critics.